Two. There are two.
I look at Maximus.
His face has done the thing it did in our quarters when I told him. His eyes are on the screen, and his jaw is working, and his hand on my shoulder is shaking.
"Twins," Elena says. "Both viable. Both with strong cardiac activity. Both healthy as far as I can measure." She sets down the wand. "Too early to determine gender. We'll need another scan for that."
She sits on the rolling stool. Presses her palms flat on her knees.
"I don't have a framework for one," she says. "For two, I have even less."
"Join the club," I say.
Maximus hasn't moved. His eyes are unfocused. His jaw is still working.
I reach up and take his hand off my shoulder and hold it. His fingers close around mine.
"Twelve weeks," he says. His voice is rough. "Both of them. Since March."
"Since March."
He looks at me. I look at him. The ultrasound gel is cold on my skin and the exam bed is narrow and the fluorescent light is buzzing and none of it matters.
"I need to clean this up," Elena says from the stool. She hasn't moved.
"Take your time," I say.
She takes her time.
We walk backto our quarters. His arm is around me.
Inside, he closes the door.
"I asked Marcellus to officiate a wedding," he says. "Tonight. In the garden."
"When did you ask him?"
"Three days ago. Isabelle has been preparing the garden. I asked her to make you a dress." His thumb traces the crest ring on my finger. The M and C that already lives there. "I wasn't planning to wait."
Three days ago. Before the farm strikes. Before the feral containment. Before I told him about the pregnancy. He was planning this before any of it.
I look at him. This man asked his second-in-command to officiate, asked Isabelle to make a wedding dress, and arrangedthe entire thing while running farm strikes and a media cover story. And didn't mention it until now.
"Mira has the dress," he says. "She's waiting for you."
He kisses me once. Then he walks toward his study, and I walk toward our quarters.
The door is open. Candlelight from inside, which is wrong because I didn't leave candles burning. I step through.
Mira is standing beside the bed in a blush dress. Behind her, the wedding dress is laid across the covers.
Cream. Floor-length. The beading catches the candlelight in tiny points that shift when the air moves. Lace at the sleeves, fine enough that I can see through it. The front is cut low.
I touch the fabric. Cool under my fingers. Heavier than it looks, the weight of the beading pulling the silk down so it hangs straight.
"Isabelle finished the beading an hour ago," Mira says. She lifts the dress off the bed. The silk slides between her fingers. "Strip."
I pull my shirt over my head. Step out of my pants. Mira folds them without comment and sets them on the chair.
